Not exactly dreams, I envision static vignettes wherein figure some of the most important people in my life. I seem to be dreaming staged photographs -- some of Annie Leibovitz quality, most black and white, all extremely legible (no need to wonder about envy, or loss). That these things are drug-induced seems likely, but I am clearly the Editor-in-Chief of content and, perhaps, intent. I am comfortable in the knowledge that there is no schism to me -- at least not anymore, at least not in any way that matters.My Mother holds a tall blond toddler, standing on a concrete slab of a balcony in Ankara, thin-waisted, pointy breasts, Modigliani-neck, a pale blue linen dress. Her hair is thick and black, wound carefully into a style that defies caricature, that is: timeless. Timeless. That pretty well sums her up -- but not the tall blond toddler. She somehow managed nearly straight blond hair, very, very fine, atop her fearful face with the open eyes, and freckles. My Mother is strong, for the long little girl leans away from her firm body, hands in the air, grabbing, grabbing -- creating some tough torque, a kick in the belly. She told me, I think, that there were airplanes everywhere, that I was reaching out to the sky, that they were dropping leaflets about Kennedy's assassination.
Why? Why would they do such a thing, in Ankara, of all places? A civilized locale, neighbors within a nod, a wave. Why would they drop leaflets in the city, where the sky is much too crowded for competing airplanes? And what could they possibly say that our radio had not?
Still, it is an iconic image, her there, framed by the doors to the tiny balcony, me (long, blond, and ugly) pushing against her to reach for the sky -- which we cannot see, where there may be heroics going on, but likely not. I cannot be quite four yet, which means, obviously, that she hasn't left us, that she is still Mother, still larger than life -- but, as always, concerned with fiction.
There are others, like the glom of my oldest brother onto the cover of Dylan's Nashville Skyline, or my stepsister's bright orange Vega (we were pretending that it was a sportscar... shoot, pretending that it was a *car*!), around which a small crowd is gathered, speechless at her choice. There is the Other-Brother-Unit...
No, that is a lie. There is never the Other-Brother-Unit. He is too precious; He is always gifted, in me, in my mind and heart, with many more chances. He just sort of floats around these stillbirthed dreams of mine, never fixed, often laughing, even through tears.
I guess we all need someone to love and admire while we are awake! And he has a calling card that we are going to obliterate week by week, every Thursday night, ticking off those minutes like small time bombs.
When I told Professor Bersani that I wanted to write about the role of habit in Proust -- he told me that he would not approve the topic, as it had "already been done." I had the flu, it was raining, and the stacks were musty. The essay in question? A mostly self-referential work by Beckett.
"The laws of memory are subject to the more general laws of habit..."
